them was a door approached by two very dirty steps. There was a
bell-push near the door, but upon neither of these entrances was
there any plate to indicate the name of the proprietor of the
establishment.

From his pocket-book the visitor extracted a card, consulted
something written upon it, and then pressed the bell.

It was very quiet in this dingy little court. No sound of the
busy thoroughfares penetrated here; and although the passage
forming the top of the "T" practically marked the river bank,
only dimly could one discern the sounds which belong to a
seaport.

Presently the door was opened by a Chinese boy who wore the
ordinary native working dress, and who regarded the man upon the
step with oblique, tired-looking eyes.

"Mr. Huang Chow?" asked the caller.

The boy nodded.

"You wantchee him see?"

"If he is at home."

The boy glanced at the card, which the visitor still held between
finger and thumb, and extended his hand silently. The card was
surrendered. It was that of an antique dealer of Dover Street,
Piccadilly, and written upon the back was the following: "Mr.